Socrates
by Dreamboat Kicks
Summary: A post-ep for The Constituency of One. WillToby friendship. Will Bailey gets drunk and recovers at Toby's house. The two discuss his decision to work for the VP. Rated PG-13 just to be safe.


**Author's Note: **This story is non-slash as always. I also made up some of Will's past purely for my own needs and imagination. The 'four campaigns' line in here has no connection whatever to the show.  
  
**Disclaimer: **See above. I just borrow them. God bless Aaron Sorkin and Joshua Molina.   
  
**Feedback: **Why else would I have posted? Anything's welcome. (This includes flames.) Constructive criticism is the most valued as well as specific compliments - don't just tell me that you liked it or didn't like it. Tell me who, what, where, and why you feel that way. Although blanket compliments are nice, I'm here to improve my writing.  
  
  
Enjoy.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~   
  
  
I stagger into the dining room, _Toby's _dining room trying vain to think around the incessant pounding in my skull. The cocktail of air currents served up by the fan on the ceiling tickles my bare chest. I don't remember taking my shirt off last night but I'm glad I did. The soft breath of the air is a welcome relief from the harshness of the world this morning. The searchlights in the kitchen only intensify my overwhelming desire to throw up. I cringe as I slide into the chair opposite Toby. The words throw up' bring a myriad of memories from last night, none of which I care to contemplate.   
  
  
There's cereal. And waffles. Eggs. Toby glances at me warily over the top the _Boston Globe_. I think I genuinely scared him last night. In a twist of fate that never ceases to move me, given the fact that I inherited the infamous Bailey stomach, I have the ability to consume phenomenal amounts of liquor.   
  
  
No food, I say hastily.   
  
  
Toby does a very decent show of pretending to go back to the paper. It's not until several minutes have past that the silence gets uncomfortable for both of us.  
  
  
Are you. . . okay? He asks, uncomfortably   
  
  
Including or not including my monstrous hangover? I ask, trying to make light of the fact that Toby had to physically carry me out of the bar last night.  
  
  
There's Advil, he says with a sigh. I'll get it, he adds as I attempt to do battle with the force of gravity. I sink back gratefully into my chair and attempt to make sure as much of my skin as possible has contact with the cool mahogany.  
  
  
After a few moments of rummaging in a back room, Toby emerges, bearing the blessed bottle with him. He sets it on the table in front of me. I shake out the required dose as he brings me a glass of water.   
  
  
If President Bartlet and Bingo Bob offered you jobs at the same time, who would pick?  
  
  
I ask, about gagging on the Advil.   
  
  
If President Bartlet and Bingo Bob offered you jobs at the same time, who would you pick?  
  
  
That's not a fair question! I yelp, struggling to rise from my seat.  
  
  
Who would you pick?  
  
  
I stare at him, grappling for something to say.  
  
  
Who would I -- what?  
  
  
You heard me.  
  
  
  
  
  
Come on, Bill Bailey, who would you pick if President Bartlet and Bingo Bob offered you jobs at the same time?  
  
  
I'm tempted to ask what type of job, but I really don't feel like playing with fire this morning.   
  
  
President Bartlet.  
  
  
You know, I never thought of myself as idealistic until I heard you say you'd taken the VP job last night.  
  
  
I feel like I've been punched, but I know I deserve it and that Toby has every right to hate me right now. He went above and beyond the call of duty last night. In all honesty, I think he called to yell at me, but as soon as he heard the slur in my voice he came and dragged me here.   
  
  
Toby gets up as two bagels pop out of the toaster. I hope they're both for him. As soon as food touches the back of my throat I know that yet more alcohol will make a second appearance on Planet Earth.   
  
  
Toby sits back down with both bagels smack in the center of his plate. Thankfully, they don't seem intended for anywhere but his mouth.  
  
  
When we wrote the joke lines of the speech. . . He doesn't seem to know how to finish the sentence.  
  
  
This lap dog of the mining interests is as dull as he is unremarkable. . . a small smile tugs my lips. This rebuke to the exemplary.' Yes.   
  
  
You work for him.  
  
  
He's right.  
  
  
About what? What'd he say? What could possibly have made you take it?  
  
  
Toby, from the standpoint of a political career in the making, this is the best thing that's ever happened to me.  
  
  
God, Will.  
  
  
He might be the next P -   
  
  
He has no skill as a politician.  
  
  
I'll teach him how to be.  
  
  
You'll _teach _him how? If he doesn't already know what to say -   
  
  
Toby, shut up. This your zenith. Who knows what you'll do afterwards. He opens his mouth to say something, but I barrel on. Retire, run for Congress, be chief of staff for someone. I've got nothing on my resume except four campaigns and no staff appointments. I pause for air. I look like a Gerneral's son. I've got to do this so that later I can do what I want.  
  
  
What _do_ you want to do?  
  
  
I don't know. He understands. He gets up to clear the plate and put the condiments away, swiping my water glass as he does so. I know we aren't done with this conversation. We'll have it off and on for months. Years, maybe.   
  
  
Where's work? He asks, once everything's in the dishwasher.  
  
  
The Capital Building.  
  
  
Let's find you some clothes.  
  
  
My car -   
  
  
I'll drive you. We can get it later when you're sober.  
  
  
As we head to the closet, my mind travels back over joke lines in a President's speech. A few days and years and years ago. We were friends then. Are friends. Not close, but getting there. Were/are. There's a tense to our relationship. An absolute truth, as Socrates would put it. I'll figure it out. Someday. Later.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
